


moments and the in-betweens

by M_arahuyo



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Kid Fic, Middle-aged sort of, Retail AU, Shopping-flirting, aged-up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_arahuyo/pseuds/M_arahuyo
Summary: There comes a point in our lives when everything slows to monotony. And then comes another point when the monotony is threatened to be broken, and we all just have to take that chance for it to be.***Two women in the blandness of their late thirties happen to meet in the simplest of ways. But the result of breaking monotony isn't just up up and happiness, all the time. It's also down, crashing: left, right, and all angles life is capable of steering.We should know. Things aren't always simple.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> what am i doing starting another multichap, you may be asking. i'll get back to you once i have the answer :')
> 
> the dramas come later. for now, *bows*

_Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?_

_-Pablo Neruda_

***

 

There comes a point in our lives when everything slows, slows enough that we feel minutes like hours and see less and less of the details of the world. Less, and _less_ : just the sadness in the gray-brown of leaves in autumn. The explicable silence of the house come nightfall. The bland look on people’s faces in the subway, in traffic, on the sidewalks, walking in that way that says the world is moving as slowly for them as it is for you.

And, there also comes a point in our lives when the monotony is broken. Or, is threatened, firstly, to be broken. It teases, as all do the offhanded things in the world do. A notice of a spot in a company opening up, and someone is reminded of their dream job at hopeful 22. An unexpected text from an unexpected someone who meant a great deal once upon a time, or _could_ mean a great deal a year or two down the line. The book someone had treasured as a child in a secondhand store, reminding them it’s been years since they’ve gone home. These things, see, they tease.

They tease—they stalk across like a cat stretching in the sun. Look here. Should you do it? Should you take it? Yes? No? What would happen, to you, to them, to everything around you? What of the dull, dragging tone of the world you’ve gotten used to? _Should you take it?_ Yes? No?

Chances, see, they don’t always come as bright and obvious as they do in movies. Sometimes they’re just a hand outstretched trying in vain to reach the 300 dollar shirt hanging on a high display rack. Sometimes people don’t take these chances, for one reason or another, for fear or uncertainty or something else. But Kara— _she_ walks over and takes the damn shirt.

* * *

 

She’s taller, besides. And she’s dressed better for it: sensible shoes and crisp jeans that are significantly less awkward to move in compared to pencil dresses.

Not to mention it’s also her job, so—“here you go,” she says smilingly, handing the shirt over. It’s an off-white men’s button-up splashed with… something like a Picasso painting on the front. She’s worked here a while and she still can’t understand half the designs they have.

“Thank you,” the customer says distractedly as she surveys the shirt with her head angled down. Kara takes that as her cue to go back to the lady she’d been assisting with shoes, but Marcus has already taken over. Her manager materializes at that moment with a disapproving frown. She plays it cool. Cool, as in—

“Um. Can I—is it the right size, miss? There are also some variations to the design on the front here.” She clasps her hands and smiles. The woman looks up and Kara’s brain fritzes for a second, because she’s—

“Beautiful. This one’s beautiful.” The woman looks at the shirt again. “But I think it’s a little small. What’s the next size?”

Kara starts. Is this the first time she’s tipped a little off-kilter by an attractive customer? Oh no, _and_ she does have the professionalism to catch herself. She pivots and climbs up to the tips of her toes to pluck the next two shirts off of the rack. “CDG sizes run small, so I recommend a size up from the usual size you wear.” She holds up both the medium and large shirts at shoulder level, one in each hand. “What’s your usual size?”

“Small.” Kara hands over the medium size and gets to returning the other two. “Thank you. For the… assistance. And the reaching.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Kara professes with an easy smile. The woman smiles back and she is pale, black-haired: all red lips and charming crow’s feet and _oh,_ Kara takes a casual step back, clearing her throat. “Um. So. Anything else I can help you with? A coat, pants…”

“Pants,” the woman says with a single-minded kind of focus, though Kara notes her smile stays. It’s a pretty smile. “Are they hung up high too, or could another customer use your help instead?”

“Well, they aren’t hung up high…” Kara says, and the woman’s smile widens. She fumbles. Her manager is at the checkout watching her and being really bad at subterfuge so she breathes. “But if you think you’ll be needing help with pants sizes, I can gladly assist you.”

“I think I will. I mean, be needing your help.” A pause from the woman as Kara starts to lead her to the jeans racks. “I’m not usually the one who shops for these things…”

Kara thumbs a pair of pants—black denims. She regards the woman. “Black? Stonewashed? Plain blue?”

“Just black yes.” Another pause. Kara gives the woman a quick look as she pulls out two sizes of the same pants off a shelf. “That sounded so terribly one percent, didn’t it?”

“What did?”

“That I don’t usually shop for myself.” The woman’s lips quirk in a wry smile. Kara shrugs and spreads out the first pair to show.

“I’m pretty sure these pants are somewhere around 400 dollars, give or take.” Kara jerks her chin toward the shirt in the woman’s hands. “That shirt is about 300. I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a personal shopper to go with everything.”

The woman, all red lips and crow’s feet, laughs and Kara mirrors the grin she’s thrown as the pants are taken from her. “And I’m wearing a Gucci dress to the mall.”

“And you’re wearing a Gucci dress to the mall,” Kara allows with a nod. The woman chuckles and her manager, her manager who couldn’t be subtle even if his life depended on it, narrows his eyes at her in the distance and she clears her throat. “The sizes are smaller, as usual. This is a medium tagged to fit a 34-inch waistband but would be better for a 30 or 29-inch waist.”

“Mm. How about a 25?” Kara takes back the medium and offers the small. The woman spreads it out. “The pant legs are kind of short.”

“How tall is he?”

“A little shorter than me? Around ear height?”

“Oh, that’s fine. It’ll look better worn.” The woman nods and tucks the pants in with the shirt with a trust so quick Kara blinks twice. Usually, the kinds of customers who come here (and people who could afford to shop here in general) are a little more critical. Condescending, definitely, but the woman just smiles, tilts her head at her and she doesn’t say anything else. Kara notices her eyes are green. That’s not good. “Is that—will that be all?”

“Yes. I should…”

“Counter.”

“Counter, yes.”

“This way,” Kara mumbles. The base of her spine tingles with another of the woman’s easy laughs as Kara leads her to checkout and _oh,_ uh-huh, that’s not good.

At checkout, her manager is trying not to look too displeased with minimum success and she ducks her head, skirting the counter to get beside him. She bags the shirt and the pants, head down, listening to him ask and the woman pay in credit, only looking up when it’s all done. The woman has a ready smile for her—red lips, crow’s feet, mirthful green eyes—and receives the bag with a brush of fingers that is too light to be anything but an accident. Still.

“Thank you for shopping at Commes de Garçons,” Kara says. The woman gives her a grin with all of her dazzling, white teeth and leaves.

Kara pathetically watches the woman as she goes. She walks as all people like her do—straight-backed, slow grace, wide hips swishing with confidence. And then Kara sighs and turns, and promptly flinches at the withering stare her manager is aiming at her.

“So,” Snapper grunts. She fumbles with her glasses. “I see you left a customer you were already assisting to her own devices to play _Supergirl_ for a _prettier_ customer.”

“You think she’s pretty too?” Kara asks absentmindedly. Snapper’s glare turns murderous and Kara, realizing what was just said, burns.

And that is how it starts for Kara.

* * *

 

It starts for Lena when she realizes her gloves aren’t in the pocket of her coat, or her purse, or anywhere in the car. 800 dollar Chanel gloves that she could easily have Jess fetch a new pair of and get at her doorstep by lunch tomorrow, but sentimentality is something.

It is, however, 10 in the evening and the mall is probably closed. She wrings her coat in her hands, dropping to sit on the foot of her bed to rifle her purse. The CDG shopping bag is on a heap by the door with her heels, and Andy very nearly trips on the latter when he walks in.

He’s climbing up on the bed before she could kiss him on the top of his head. She has to rotate at the hip because he creeps around her to avoid it with a grimace. She laughs. “Hey. How was school?”

“It was okay. Did you know America was built from a consistent yet brutal pattern of oppression by white people?”

“I did.” Andy flops with a loud _oof._ Lena starts the text to Jess (“ _please go to the Plaza tomorrow, I think I left my gloves at the CDG boutique_ ”) and hums. “It still is. Being continuously built by said consistent yet brutal pattern of oppression by white people, but we're doing our best to quit it.”

“Mm. And thanksgiving isn’t really what it seems.” Lena hums again (“ _which gloves? Your Chanel gloves?_ ” Jess texts back promptly.) “Is that for me?”

Lena looks at the CDG bag her son is pointing to, all young bright eyes and an open mouth. She smiles and nods, and he rushes at it with all the grace of a golden retriever playing fetch. It’s apt: he takes the bag, runs back, and leaps onto the mattress. “For that Thanksgiving event at your school,” Lena says. “Tell me if they don’t fit.”

(“ _Yes, the black ones._ ”) Andy dumps the contents of the bag into his lap and spreads them on the length of the mattress. “Yeah. They fit.”

“You haven’t even tried them on.”

“They fit,” he chirps, gathering them back into the bag. “Thanks, mom.” (“ _I always thought they’re more midnight blue, actually._ ”) “Something up?”

( _“Get them back and then we’ll see how black they are, Jess._ ”) “Mm?” Lena looks up. Andy is sitting back on his haunches next to her, head tilted and dark eyes curious. Already catching up to her height, much to her chagrin. She smiles though, ruffles his hair, and locks her phone. “Nothing. I was just texting Jess about something—hey, you need a haircut.”

“No I don’t.” He does. The ends are past his earlobes and they cowlick in messy angles. Lena huffs. He shrugs. “Texting Jess what about? Does it have something to do with Ugly Edge—”

“Morgan Edge”

“Ugly Edge again?” Lena tries to look chiding but she probably fails, seeing how Andy grins cheekily. “So does it?” 

“No. I… may have left my gloves at the mall earlier getting your clothes.”

“The ones uncle Lex got you?” Lena nods. And then Andy’s nose crinkles and he grins a little more. “You shopped on your own? Was aunt Jess dying in the hospital earlier or something?”

“Hey. I can do things on my own.”

“Oh, for sure. Like running a company and inventing the next big thing in robotics—”

“ _Other_ things like shopping and buying my own coffee—”

“You bought your own coffee?” Andy says with exaggerated shock, hand flying to his mouth. Lena snorts and pulls the shirt out of the shopping bag to throw at his face. The sleeves snag around his head. Muffled, “that must’ve felt weird.”

“Need I remind you that I’ve never missed one PTA meeting since you started school.”

“Well yeah, but that’s just one of the things you already _do._ You don’t, like.” Andy pulls the shirt off his head and waves with its sleeve. “Do the groceries and shop and stuff, which is cool, because it does this whole CEO thing for you.”

“Which, as you already know, is what I am,” Lena huffs as she stands and heads to her closet room. Andy makes a snorting sound. “Anyway, I’ve already told Jess to see if they’re still there, so no need to worry about me doing more non-CEO things.”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow, though.”

Lena pokes her head out of the closet to blink at Andy. “Mm, and?”

“I dunno.” Andy shrugs and turns to his mother, only to groan and look away. “ _Mom_ , are you seriously naked right now—”

“Yes. What about tomorrow?”

“Well, I don’t have school and stuff.”

“Mhm.” Lena pulls her head back in and continues changing. “You wanna go out with your friends? That boy Trevor is really nice. Will you need Gus to drive you somewhere?”

“Well. Uh, like, _we_ haven’t gone out in a while, so.”

“We were in New York just last week! Remember, we went to Times Square?”

“Yeah, but…” Lena pads back into the room in her night clothes to see Andy sprawled on her bed, tangling the sleeves of his new shirt in loose knots. “You had like, a business thing there. It was weird going out with your investors.”

Lena chews her lip and lies down with him, crosswise on the mattress. Andy’s little toe brushes her temple. She nudges his foot away. Right there, that’s a chance. Go out with her son or not. She considers it. She has that Saturday lunch date with the vice president of Barclays. A meeting with the audit partners of Ernst & Young. Another meeting with the L-Corp legal team regarding two of their products’ patent renewal. A chance—a cat stretching in the sun. “Right. So… you wanna… Should _we_ go to the mall tomorrow instead?”

Andy hums. He stops his tangling and sits up, smiling at Lena. “Totally,” he says, and grunts when Lena pinches his big toe.

“Better get to bed then.” Lena pats his foot. “Go on. Bed.”

“Haven’t had dinner yet.”

“What?” Lena’s brows screw. She sits up, and Andy slides off of the bed with his shopping bag. “Didn’t Gina cook dinner for you?”

“She did. Duck salad. It’s Friday though so I waited for you.”

Lena pauses. Andy is yawning, slipping back into his slippers, dressed for bed and still hasn’t had dinner. He clutches the CDG bag to his chest and looks at Lena expectantly. Lena’s smile spreads slow.

“Gina’s duck salad is the best,” she professes.

“The best duck salad for the best mom.”

 

 

Lena had almost forgotten about her, in all truths. In-between acquiring CatCo right under Morgan Edge’s nose and a number of engagements Jess had for her that day, it’s only fair to say she didn’t have the luxury to linger on the things that went on earlier in the day. But now Lena walks into the CDG boutique, and her eyes inadvertently zero in on her.

She’s not smiling this time though, the pretty blonde woman with glasses and broad shoulders no one of her sunny disposition had the right to have. She’s wincing, mouth moving lightning quick in what could only be apologies to the stern-looking man holding two shirts and arguing back. She tells Andy, “go see if you’ll like anything while we’re here,” and waits for the all clear before approaching.

The woman, shoulders slumped and lips pursed, startles when Lena comes into view. Her back snaps ramrod straight. Her laugh lines run deep and her smile looks all the more charming with them: genuine, happiness bone-deep. “Hello! Welcome back!” she greets Lena. And then her expression falls, and her shoulders bunch up. “You’re not here for a return, are you? Were the pants too short?”

“Oh no, no, the clothes were perfect,” though Lena doesn’t have a hard time imagining the size problems happen a lot. The woman’s smile paints relieved. Lena smirks. “Thank goodness too, because _that_ looked like enough chewing out for one day.”

The woman blinks. She flushes next and says, sheepishly, “I told him to try out a bigger size because of the whole smaller sizing thing but... I thinkhe took that as my implying he’s. Uh. _Big._ ” Lena furrows her brows and the woman waggles hers, gesturing around her stomach in wide arcs. Lena’s laugh bubbles out of her surprised. The woman grins. “Yeah. So um. What do you need this time? Shoes for the getup? A coat?”

“Ah. No. Actually… someone from the staff wouldn’t happen to have found some gloves around…” Lena turns a few times before finding the shirt shelves to gesture to. “Here? Black ones. At the risk of sounding snobby, Chanel—”

“Oh, those were yours?” the woman blurts. Lena could almost pin her expression as a strange sort of wonder had she more time to take it in, but the woman’s already turning around. “One second. Can you wait here?”

Lena watches her go, jogging the way she smiles and speaks. Easy, bubbly, all bouncing steps. She comes back to Lena in much the same way and Lena feels like the sunlight-sheened man at the end of the meadow in one of those slow motion, sappy running scenes in old romantic movies. The woman is grinning, and Lena feels a slight warmth on her cheeks and well, that can’t be good.

Between them are the gloves—her gloves. Held by the woman on an open palm and Lena smiles, taking it gingerly. “I—I didn’t even think of stealing them, I swear,” the woman explains in earnest. “I mean. I _did_ put them in my bag when I found them because someone might’ve. Stolen them, I mean. Or thought to. Which uh. Would lead to _actually_ stealing them. And I was going to… turn them in to lost and found but I got here late, and my manager was mad, and—oh, I shouldn’t be telling you that part.”

“Bosses and employees,” Lena says with a dismissive wave of her hand. She knows all about that. She smooths the gloves out and folds them by the halves, slipping them into her pockets. “Thank you. These are… they’re somewhat special and I’ve had them for years and—I shouldn’t be telling you that part.”

“Gloves and sentimentality.” The woman flaps her hand. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with the same hand and grins, and her eyes are a bright kind of blue and _oh,_ that definitely cannot be good.

Because Lena Luthor is a 35 year-old woman with a ten year-old son walking around here in the boutique somewhere and a company to run, and no time to be crushing on every pretty, broad-shouldered, smiling woman she sees. But here is Lena Luthor, crushing on the one pretty, broad-shouldered, smiling woman she can see right now.

* * *

 

Kara Danvers is a 37 year-old woman (Alex would say a breath to 38, and she’d roll her eyes) working in retail with a degree framed and hanging on a sad wall of her bedroom, and no right to be sneaking looks at the beautiful woman with the Chanel gloves and the boy next to her who could only be her son.

But, here is Kara Danvers, still sneaking looks at the beautiful woman with the Chanel gloves and the boy next to her who (Kara’s pretty sure) is her son.

The resemblance isn’t immediate, though. The boy is brown-skinned while his mother is pale, his hair is wavy, and his eyes are dark and meet other people’s a little more shyly. But the woman tells him something and he laughs and Kara is floored for a second, seeing the curve of her mouth replicated so perfectly on an otherwise different face. The woman catches her staring and she twitches, looking down, squinting at her shoes.

“What do you think of this one?”

“You already have like a hundred white shirts, try some other color. Oh look! They have it in red.”

“I don’t like red.”

“Shame on you.”

Kara smothers a laugh and stands a little straighter, moving to peruse the rack with them. “I’m sure we have it in blue… _Pretty_ sure… I think I’ve stocked—aha! Here.”

The boy pushes past his mother to look the shirt over, touching it at the hems as Kara holds it up. “See, mom, now this is better.”

“Disgrace,” the woman says, and she and Kara share a grin. “Is that a size medium? Go see if it fits.”

“It does.”

“Andy.”

“Going to see if it fits!” he professes, making a beeline for the dressing rooms.

“Energetic,” Kara observes. She chuckles and gets to work on replacing the haphazardly sampled shirts into their hangers. When the woman moves to help, she bristles. “Oh no, please, I’ll do it.”

“I’ll help—”

“No. _Gosh_. Uh.” Kara glances slowly over her shoulder. Snapper is talking to Marcus, but he could look over to them any minute—oh, there. He looks over. Kara snaps upright and goes back to work. “It’s my manager. He’ll kill me if I let a customer so much as chuck a shirt back into a shelf.”

The woman’s brows rise but she backs off, and for Kara’s benefit, Kara figures, idly scans the rack with slow fingers as they talk. “Huh. Have you been working with him long?”

“A while, yeah. He takes his job seriously and prefers we takes ours seriously too, so.”

“Uh-huh.” The woman takes out a shirt and hands it to Kara. When Kara blinks, she winks and leans in conspiratorially. “Quick. Act like you’re telling me about the shirt so we can keep talking.” 

And oh, _oh,_ Kara shouldn’t feel so happy (and so willing) to do that. “It’s not that I don’t take the job seriously.” She holds the shirt up between them. “But you know. Sometimes he kind of becomes a… dick. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the woman says. She pulls out another shirt and Kara returns the one in her hand before taking that. “At least tell me he isn’t a dick all the time? I know a thing or two about hard bosses and stressed out employees…”

“Oh, he’s nice when he’s nice. I mean. Most times his _rage_ is justified, so.” Kara shrugs. “It’s just that grumpy is his default setting. And he can get pretty scary.”

The woman hums. Another shirt handed. Another shirt held up. “So… know a thing or two about that, huh?” Kara ventures, and the woman smirks and winks and quips, _oh yes,_ but that’s it. It’d be cute if it weren’t so infuriatingly not-informative. That she hopes for something more informative in the first place is… not good.

They’ve gone through eight shirts in the shirt charade by the time the woman’s son comes back. “Told you it fits,” he tells his mother. And then, “I still want the white one, though.”

And so they take the white one. And a blue one with a different print but not a red one, oh disgrace. Marcus and the new girl Hannah are at checkout so she doesn’t follow the two of them there. She assists a snobby-looking teenager instead, smiling through his complete deadpanned drawling and shows him to where the distressed jeans are. She sneaks one look. Promises to herself, one last look. It becomes five looks in the end. Maybe more. 

 

 

The woman takes the time to come to her after checking out, shopping bag in her hand and Kara’s breath caught in her chest. She caught Kara looking. Of course she did. And the vision of the confrontation and Snapper’s ire is enough to make her blanch but the woman just asks, “are you always here?”

Kara pushes up her glasses and clears her throat and pretends, oh dear, _pretends_ Snapper isn’t glaring at her in the distance. “Um. All week except Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays,” she supplies. The woman smiles and she fidgets. “Why, um. Why are you asking?”

“Just so I know when _specifically_ to come here again. When my PA isn’t available for errands,” the woman says with something like a blush on her cheeks. That, _that_ is super not good. Kara nods and looks down, smoothing her hair back. The snobby teenager asks for the next jean size and she hands it to him without a word. The woman is watching her.

“You can. Uh. Yes, come here all week except Sundays and Mondays. And Tuesdays! I’m here,” she says. She clears her throat. The woman laughs a breathless little laugh, points to the mannequin nearby, and murmurs, “I kind of like that dress. I might come back for it.” Kara definitely doesn’t imagine her in the dress, not even for a second. She watches her walk away.

Toward her son, at the exit. Her son that could only mean there’s a husband, or—at least a _man_ in her life, because why wouldn’t she? Have a man in her life, that is. She’s beautiful, and charming, and definitely _something_ if she can wear Gucci and Chanel and has personal shoppers that could come anytime to CDG to get the damn dress for her. She wants Kara to be there again though, _just in case_ her PA is unavailable so… that must mean something good.

Oh, Kara’s hoping. That can’t be good.

She still tells Snapper not to change her schedule. She doesn’t know how she’s coming up with half the details of the excuse she’s making up, but Snapper still buys it, grumbling about needing more hands because people keep quitting. Kara _can’t_ imagine why people keep quitting,  _oh._

* * *

 

And that, with chances taken and meetings done, is how it _all_ starts. 


	2. ii

National City has a population of roughly 1,339,000. Five years before it was 1,322,000, and three years before that it was 1,307,000. A sizable portion of the increases is attributable to its local economy that has seen slow and steady improvement since 2012, attracting businessmen and dreamers from out of state and out of the country. The average age of the population is 35, and men outnumber women by 0.02 percent.

Of the 1,339,000 people of the city, 32 percent are not in the labor force and 59 percent are employed—the majority of the 59 enjoy annual salaries that would place them in the lower-middle class strata or lower: a sweat-wiping close call of 54 percent, which the National City government takes pride in. In 10 years, they say, the majority will be in the higher strata. By the simple, elementary process of subtraction, 46 percent then are the middle class, the comfortable, the luxurious.

We are, however, first here to talk about this 54 percent of the working population. Or specifically, this one person in it:

She dallies just above the average age of National City’s populace of 35, being 37. 38 one would say if they were feeling particularly mean. She’d been on the medical track in college but switched lanes at one point to Journalism and finished with flying colors, making her a part of the 26 percent bachelor’s degree holders of the city. Lattes are her go-to beverage. She wears H&M bought on sale, Urban Outfitters, and shamelessly, goodwill. For breakfast she eats 2 to 4 sticky buns in one sitting, perusing social media and snorting at cat videos, and grabs a chocolate bar to go as she heads to work.

She gets around by public transit, as the majority of the populace do. On the road she listens to whatever comes on shuffle in her phone—her favorite song is anything by Carole King and any one of the songs in the Hamilton soundtrack. Her favorite movie of all time is Breakfast at Tiffany’s, though she does still cry to Titanic, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Juno, around the birthing scene.

On any other day, by anyone who is fond of her, she is called by her first name. Right now, though, she is known as—

 

 

“ _Ponytail!_ ” Snapper wails from the stockroom, muffled and strained and _hurry up or you’re fired._ “Blondie! Glasses! _Danvers!_ ”

Ponytail, Blondie, Glasses, Danvers— _Kara_ bursts into the stockroom breathlessly, shirt collar ruffled and glasses askew in her haste. She fixes the latter and her mouth rapid-fires, “yes boss, here boss, what do you need boss, whatever you want, at your service boss—”

“The damn boxes,” Snapper grunts. These boxes: the shipment of some brand new Picasso-design shirts that came in this morning. He’s hefting up four in one go and they’ve tilted. He’s slanted desperately backward because the top box has slid. It would fall. On his head. And make a mess. Just one wrong move. “Get the–get the damn—”

“I got it, I got it.” Kara charges forward. Snapper watches her for the entire 5 seconds it takes her to circle the stockroom with wild, waving hands. “I got, uh,” she stammers, finding a miniature stepladder. Snapper watches her again, for the 3 seconds it takes her to set it up next to him and mount.

“The longer we’re here, Danvers, the more likely it is that a potential customer would walk out of the store because no one’s there to assist them,” Snapper grunts. Kara gets it. She totally gets it, but the stepladder’s flimsy and his glare isn’t helping any. “Carefully. The top two.”

Kara flexes her hands and reaches out. She lifts the two, topmost boxes up and her and Snapper go “oh, _oh,_ ” when she tilts. Straightening, she climbs very slowly down the stepladder with the boxes and beams at Snapper, who huffs at her and professes, “good. Good work.”

Kara squares her shoulders, pleased. And then she bunches them up in terror when Snapper trips over the stepladder, his boxes flung, scattering the six other boxes that had been stacked neatly nearby.

 

 

Snapper didn’t fire her, thank God, but she did get an earful. And it still kind of hurts around her ankle where a stray shoe popped out of its box and karate-kicked her with a _thwack_. Marcus and Hannah worked double time while she and Snapper tidied the stockroom to the best of their abilities for the next hour. They had to clean up because shoe boxes and shirt packs on the floor are just a concussion or a twisted ankle waiting to happen. Health hazard: at least, according to Snapper.

He takes his job seriously. Kara explains this to Alex, who laughs behind the rim of her wine glass and shakes her head. “Jesus Christ, Kar,” Winn throws in, grinning. “I don’t know how you stand him.”

“He’s not that bad,” Kara huffs wearily. “He’s just. All about responsibility. I don’t know. It’s kind of sweet how dedicated he is to his job, actually.”

“And not-sweet how he yells at you for not arranging the shirts by color, size, and neckline depth,” Alex deadpans. Winn salutes her with his own wineglass and Alex salutes back, much to Kara’s eyerolling. “Seriously though, what the heck are you doing at friggin’ CDG? Haven’t you heard from the applications you sent out yet?”

Kara chews her cheek. “Nope.” She shrugs. “This is better than being unemployed, you know. I’d do anything to get paid. But, like… dignified.”

“Seriously? None?”

“None.” Kara sinks back into the couch and sits frowning at her knees. “I mean… I was offered a teaching job at Ojai—”

“Take it!” Alex hoots. Winn nods feverishly.

“—but the salary will just be eaten up by the daily commute costs or rent, if I choose to rent. I ran the numbers.” Kara pries her knees apart and rests her elbows on them. “And then Edge Industries wants a secretary for Edge—”

“Nope, sexual harassment is always in season with Edge,” Alex interjects. Winn shakes his head vigorously.

“—yeah, no, exactly.” Sighing, Kara rubs her eye beneath her glasses. “So, yeah. CDG. The best pick, believe it or not.”

A beat of silence, a sip of wine, and Winn ventures cautiously, “how about CatCo? Or KPJT?” Alex gives him a look. He shuts his mouth by drinking again and then lets out a meek, “right, right.”

Kara doesn’t mind them, though. Her eyes have flicked to her old, newsroom box with all her pens and notebooks, and her brain’s flown to days on the field and desperate squeaking of “can I get a quote?”

Five years since she quit. Five years and three months, her Journalism degree taunting her every time she goes to change into her night clothes and lies in bed. She’d taken it down before, but Alex put it back up with a scolding of “that thing’s something to be proud of.” Not really, she remembers saying. Alex only frowned. She’d asked Kara, “are you ever going back?” and Kara…

Well, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? We are skirting dangerously close to the middle and it’s not time for that yet. You and I, we’re here to talk about beginnings for now, and beginnings continue like this:

Beginnings continue with Winn hastily changing the subject to sweep up his faux pas and set it on fire. Lyra, he says, love of his life, apple of his eye, had mentioned the catering company she works for is short a server or two for a charity gala they were hired for at Lord Technologies. “It’s a one-time gig thing, this Thursday. And you’d do anything to get paid, right?” Winn raises his hands. “But like, dignified.”

So Thursday afternoon finds Kara in crisp slacks, a shirt, and a cute bow tie. She enters through the back with Lyra and all the catering people while someone, _someone,_ walks through the front of the same building, at the same time, for the same event. And now, I repeat to you, beginnings continue like this.

* * *

 

Now, we talk about the _other_ side of the National City demographics. Or just one specific person on this other side of the demographics.

46 percent of the city’s working populace are the middle and upper-middle classes, and the mythical, sometimes hated, one percent. The one percent drive luxury cars and rarely care to look twice at receipts unless they hit a certain digit-mark—let’s say, five digits? For her part, _she_ pays close attention to four digits, even three, ever since that time she accidentally left the saved form of her credit card on her son’s laptop and he binged on video games and electronics.

Unless you’re taking over the world or running a multi-billion dollar business, you really _do not need_ that much processing power on a computer. Or even more than one computer, really.

She’s right at the population average age, being 35. She is also part of the 17 percent with a graduate degree, and if demographics measured the age when graduate degrees were acquired, she’d be at _under 25._ Her favorite beverage is anything with herbal on the name. For breakfast, she bites off the heads of deserving employees and maintains a normal, but flexible, vegetarian diet for other meals. She is partial to carrot sticks though, and she eats them during late nights in the office or while sitting in her car.

On trips, behind her driver, she listens to classical because it helps her think. Her favorite is Clair de Lune, but whenever someone asks she says Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King, just to see men chuckle awkwardly and women raise their brows. Her favorite movie is The Notebook—don’t tell anyone. And her name, her name is one that’s known and spoken usually in whispers.

 

 

“Ms Luthor.” Maxwell Lord comes up for her hand. She hands it over, and gives a genial smile when he bends to feather a kiss on her knuckles. “A pleasure. Welcome, welcome!”

“Amping it up with the dramatic flairs, are we?” she says. Lord takes her dry humor in stride, gesturing with wide arms around the convention area. Spun glass-studded streamers, floors as good as mirrors, his machines in proud display behind glass cases. She has a feeling he’d have erected a statue of him at the center, if that didn’t come off as tackily pretentious. He _is_ pretentious, but with style.

“The best for the best.” Lord winks. “I didn’t think you’d show. We hit a bit of a snag in our relationship just recently, didn’t we?”

Lena’s brow twitches but she pins it down, oh, manners and pride. She smiles and it feels shark-like on her face. “Snag as in patent infringement? Oh, yes, quite the snag.”

The upper class, the one percent, most of them pride themselves on their upbringing first, material possessions second. Lord, unfortunately, a man of new money, doesn’t share her upbringing and he’s too late to school his expression into neutrality. He fires back, though, and Lena’s pleasure is cut short. “It’s not really patent infringement if it’s discernibly different from the other, right? Say…” He looks her straight in the eye. “A _better_ version? An obvious improvement?”

Lena’s teeth ground behind her smile. “Even the courts thought so,” Lord soldiers on. Lena, despite the very strong urge to take off a heel and hit him with it in the face, only hums.

“The courts have been wrong before,” she says coolly. Her response only serves to widen Lord’s smile.

“Not with a lot of things that have to do with you,” he whispers. Lena’s expression _begs_ to sour but she controls it, and only looks away to manage her pulse.

Once again, what Maxwell Lord means is something that is to be explored later on, in the middle. Patience, patience—not yet. We are here for beginnings:

Beginnings, of Jess giving her a heated side eye as Lord leaves their orbit with a soldered laugh and a gentleman’s kiss to Lena’s cheek. “Ready to leave, Ms Luthor?” she asks, already priming her phone to call Gus to the front. It’s what she’d suggested to Lena: _just give the bastard a smile to say no hard feelings, and then we can go. Have me mail the check for the charities._ But Lena is nothing if not stubborn. She shakes her head, and fixes Jess with a determined stare.

“I'm fine, I'm fine. We can stay,” she grits out. Jess sighs and rolls her head to the heavens, mumbling for strength. Lena slaps her lightly on the arm. “If you want something to do with that phone, call home. Check on Andy and Gina.”

“How about you?”

Lena lets a hand pass over her face and sighs. “A drink?” she murmurs uncertainly. And then she nods, decides with conviction, “a drink,” and Jess flags down a server for her before stepping away for the call.

“Tell me if you’re ready to leave.”

“Of course.”

“Drink, ma’am?”

“ _Of course,_ ” Lena replies with feeling, letting a needy groan crawl out of her mouth as she pivots to reach for the proffered tray.

 

And now, you’ll see why it is _here_ that they have to meet again, and not any other time a month past since their charged encounter at CDG. Kara’s favorite place to get her lattes and sticky buns is the coffee shop Lena’s car regularly passes on the way to work. Lena’s car is the black Tesla with the MIT sticker Kara often sees sailing by her bus stop and dreams of one day riding. Lena always has her head down to peruse emails, and the windows are tinted—they never see each other, not even once.

Lena _did_ return to the boutique once, hurrying her strides before she could talk herself out of it. That was a Thursday like this one, but that day Kara called in sick because of the flu and spent the day sneezing and watching movies on her couch, which included The Notebook. Kara let days at work pass her heavy with anticipation, glancing at the entrance time and again in the hopes of getting a glimpse of a gorgeous, black-haired woman with kind eyes and a figure that could make her drop dead in a cardiac arrest. But, the population of National City is 1,339,000, and eventually they both resigned themselves to the notion that it was never going to happen, anyway.

See, they have to meet today of all days, the same day when Carole King put out another Greatest Hits album and Lena’s son finally perfected Clair de Lune on the piano. Because had it been earlier than today, then the both of them wouldn’t believe in the power of—

* * *

 

 _Accidents_ , thinks Kara, blinking like a dolt and mouth wide open.

 _Sheer, dumb luck,_ thinks Lena, eyes wide as saucers and tongue tangled in her mouth.

Something set into motion by teasing chances unsuspectingly taken. Paths unwound: beginnings, a middle, and an end.

I do prefer the term _fate,_ however.

* * *

 

A beat. “ _Hi,_ ” they say in unison. Blurt? Cough? Lena notes with a flash of endearment that the woman’s face has gone pink. Notes, with a twinge of embarrassment, the warmth of her own cheeks. Lena blinks twice more and lets the world wilt away from focus around her, gathers her bearings, and powers (what she prays is) a confident smile.

“It’s you,” she says. If anyone were to tell her her voice sounds too high, she would deny it. To the grave. The woman adjusts her glasses with her free hand and laughs breathlessly.

“It’s nice to see you,” she tells Lena with a sunspot smile. Lena is noticing the way the light catches in her blonde hair and brightens the blue of her eyes when she _should_ be coming up with a response. She gets to that.

“You too.” Eloquent, if Lena may say so herself. “What are you…” she gestures and chuckles, “you assist in galas, too?”

“It’s uh. It’s a gig. One time thing,” the woman laughs. Is she wearing a bow tie? It’s a cute bow tie. Oh, dear God. “Chardonnay?”

“Please.” A glass handed. Perfunctory physical contact, fingers brushing fingers, and Lena resists the girlish urge to giggle. “I would suggest you take one too and join me, but you probably wouldn’t be able to say yes.”

The woman grins. “I could, after this.”

Lena’s brain crashes and burns spectacularly. Blinking, she asks too loudly, “what?” and the woman reddens like a beet.

“I—I meant. You know. Maybe after… after this. _Thing._ We could…”

“Grab a drink?” Lena picks up, a smile already splitting her face in half. The woman smiles back and laughs. Lena doesn’t miss how she reaches for her glasses again.

“If you want.”

“I do,” Lena says without missing a beat. Flinching, the woman stammers and Lena could make out _great_ and _oh my gosh_ among the stuttering. It’s cute, especially coming out of the mouth of a woman her age and gait. Oh dear. “You have something to explain to me, I think.”

The woman coughs herself aright and her brows furrow. It’s a curious, adorable furrow. “But that’s for later,” Lena says conspiratorially. She prepares to say more but a server comes out from the crowd, whispers to the woman, and chances Lena a polite, if only questioning, smile before she goes. She doubles back respectfully. “Your cue?”

“Afraid so,” the woman says apologetically. “So…”

“After,” Lena says smilingly. “Kettner, if you know it? I’ll wait until ten?”

“Kettner, that’s in the—yes, _yeah_. I’ll… I have to…” A clear of her throat, an awkward gesture over her shoulder.

“Of course,” Lena chuckles. The woman smiles and turns to go. Lena, brain coming back to her and the sounds of the gala returning in a slow buildup, bristles with memory and follows the woman in two strides. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice loud even to her own ears. “I didn’t… I should probably ask for your name.”

The woman blinks, snorts, rolls her eyes at herself and mutters _of course, dummy._ Lena watches her open her mouth to say her name.

* * *

 

Kara is sitting at a table, at ten-thirty in the evening, in an upscale bar she has never, ever been in until now. She is surrounded by the gleeful upper-middle class, knee bouncing nervously under the table, with a beautiful woman across from her pouring her a glass of wine.

“You said you’re there the whole week. Except Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays,” the woman she knows now as Lena counts off on her fingers. And then she uses these fingers to gesture with a smirk at Kara. “I went there on a Thursday. _You_ weren’t there.”

Kara laughs and swirls her wine. “Are you _sure?_ Maybe I was in the stockroom. Snapper usually calls me over there for inventory stuff. Like… fifteen minute things.”

“I’m positive I stayed there pretending to be looking at dresses for at least thirty minutes. I was ten minutes late to a meeting,” Lena replies. Heat spreads in Kara’s chest at the idea of that and she snorts, passing a shy hand down her eyes.

“Well…” She pauses to think. Snaps her fingers. “That… might’ve been the Thursday I called in sick.”

“Oh?”

“I caught the flu. I spent the day watching movies.”

“Any particularly good ones?”

“Well… I watched The Notebook?”

Something like joy (amusement?) flashes in Lena’s eyes for a reason Kara doesn’t yet know, not yet: they are just beginning, after all. Before she could wonder about it, Lena asks her, “and what did you think of it?”

“I bawled,” she says. Lena’s laugh is delighted, fingers fanning over her mouth. Kara smiles at the sound of it. “Ugly-bawling. It was unbelievable.”

“I think it’s wonderful myself.”

“Oh it was great. And then I put on Bridesmaids as a palate cleanser but I fell asleep halfway.”

A companionable laugh, and then a companionable quiet. Kara takes a drink of her wine and it’s nothing like the classy sips Lena is taking. She’d be embarrassed if Lena didn’t look so charmed by it—or, actually, she _is_ embarrassed specifically because Lena looks so charmed by it. She lowers her glass and clears her throat, steering to new conversation. “So… now I get what you meant by knowing the whole _hard bosses and employees_ thing.”

Lena looks frightened for a second. Or maybe Kara needs to stop over-analyzing things. Just surprise—she settles with surprised. “Do you now?”

“Yeah… I mean, the gala was attended by CEOs and company presidents and… held by Maxwell Lord.”

“So I must be a CEO or company president or at least someone worthy of being invited by Maxwell Lord.”

“Does that sound judgy?”

“Not at all,” Lena says with an easy grin. “You’re right, though.” Hesitation, just a small one. A hard five seconds of seeming to leap over it, and Lena extends her hand across the table in an offer of a formal handshake, as is befitting of her station: “Lena Luthor. Owner, CEO of L-Corp.”

Oh. _Oh._ Kara slowly meets the pale hand suspended over their drinks and gives it a slow shake. Luthor, Luthor—oh yes, she knows. Really though, who doesn’t. What with the name’s bitter history of a scandalous fall from grace ten years ago and a steady, if quiet, revival the next years after, in the hands of _this_ Lena Luthor, anyone who can read and watch the news is bound to know what that name means.

Lena’s smile is strained. Their hands are still clasped over the table. Kara blinks back to reality and gives a grin that, she notices, makes Lena’s grip soften and her lips part in a gape.

Lena, after all, is not the only one with something of a grimy past she has to deal with on a regular basis. “Kara Danvers,” Kara says, and an expected focus comes to Lena’s face. “Retail worker.”

“Up until five years ago,” Lena says quietly. Kara ducks her head and her smile turns wan, though it doesn’t escape her how their hands are still linked. She wonders if she should let go first, or should she let Lena do the honors. Neither of them is showing signs of wanting to let go which is. Well, _golly._

“That’s me,” Kara says, injecting some semblance of casualness in her voice. She takes a deep breath, “ _s_ _o…_ ” and fingers her glasses with her free hand. “Any more curve balls we wanna throw at each other before we talk about the weather?”

Lena laughs, joyously she does. Her crow’s feet are stark and Kara never thought wrinkles could look so. Pretty. Alex herself dollops her face with a variety of beauty crèmes and masks on a nightly basis and tells Kara all sorts of things about moisturizers and facial washes with all the conviction of a seasoned detective, which is kind of funny, actually. But Lena, Lena smiles and wears her age so well that it wakes a tiny, tiny ember of envy in Kara. Just this morning, she plucked out two graying hairs on the crown of her head with tweezers. She wonders if Lena ever bothers with things like that.

“Well then,” Lena is the first to retract her hand, “fantastic weather we’re having, aren’t we?”

“Oh yes. The sun is just _glorious._ I’ve been trying to get my friends together for a park picnic but all they wanna do is stay home and drink wine.”

Lena raises her glass. “Staying home and drinking wine is the life.”

“Bleh.”

 

 

They speak none of the unenviable pasts sitting on their shoulders for their continued talk. It’s a kind of quiet agreement: a mutual respect and sympathy from one who’s had a hard time dealing with the past to another of the same. They know the weights, see, and while both are curious, they hold their tongues. They’re having a good time besides, so really, why spoil it?

It’s closing time when they leave, just a few minutes past midnight. Kara hadn’t even realized how late it’s gotten until a server approaches them with an apology and a notice to say they’re closing up.

Kara is booking an Uber as they step out into the street. “Is that a boyfriend? Husband?” Lena asks smilingly, and Kara starts, clutching her phone to her chest. “Are you in trouble?” 

“No,” Kara guffaws. “I mean. None of both.” Lena’s head tips a touch higher. Daringly, and perhaps a little shamelessly, _maybe_ a little hopefully, Kara quips, “and you? Are you in trouble?”

“My son knows I’ll be out late.” The brown-skinned, dark-eyed son with her mother’s smile. Kara braces herself for the mention of the brown-skinned, dark-eyed husband. “None of both either.”

At this, an invisible tether seems to wind around them both and they regard each other with heightened interest, eyes linked by a channel of electricity, smiles slow to spread. Kara bites her lip and Lena tilts her head, one brow coming up, crow’s feet deep.

Kara holds up her phone to show Lena. “Just getting a ride,” she says. A pucker between Lena’s brows accompanies her frown.

“Nonsense, _I_ kept you out late. Let me take you home. Just give me your address, I’ll have Gus drive there first.”

“Lena—”

“Please, I insist,” Lena says softly with a hand to Kara’s forearm. Kara mulls it over with a mouth that opens and closes, opens and closes, until a car pulls over at the curb and the driver steps out, looking between them both.

“Ms Luthor?” he ventures, opening the passenger door.

Kara gawks at the black Tesla: tinted windows, shiny rims, unmarked except for a small sticker of MIT on the rear window, and Kara’s dream of riding. Now, isn’t that just a sign. Fate, dare we say?

Well then.

Lena lets her board first—Kara’s heart gives a traitorous stutter—and they sit a breath’s distance from the other, not speaking, something like a teenager’s diffidence hovering between them both. They’re both adults. It’s ridiculous. Lena’s fidgeting is kind of cute. Ridiculous.

“Where to?” Lena asks. Kara tells her the address with a hand to her glasses, and watches Lena relay the information to the driver. The car’s purr when it moves is soft, exquisite. Kara could barely feel anything moving under her. It’s unbelievable.

* * *

 

Neither of them sleeps immediately once they’re in their respective homes, despite the _good night’s_ they’ve given each other. Kara drinks some water, grabs her toiletries, and sits in front of her laptop with her toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. Lena creeps into Andy’s room to kiss him on the temple, washes her face, and picks up her tablet on the way to bed.

They both fire up their browsers. They both, with quick fingers and curious anticipation, enter one another’s name on the search bar.


	3. iii

Lena knows these about Kara Danvers.

She is pretty, single, and 38 years old. Before going into retail, she’d been one of the many who flocked to National City at the start of its economic boom, though for school: Journalism at NCU. She started her career as a personal assistant to Cat Grant at CatCo, and three years later she’d been promoted to field reporter, covering anything and everything under Cat’s tutelage.

She’d reported on a variety of things over the course of the years: product launches, conventions, crime, politics. She made waves briefly as a central figure in the fight for immigrant rights. Even that pales in comparison, though, to the one particular event that seems to start and end with _Kara Danvers_. It was the first few results Lena got when she looked Kara up, in fact.

_Reign of Terror: the Cult of Yuda-Kal._

Some five years ago, a cult worshipping some obscure, dark god wrecked havoc in National City. They dabbled in bombings, arson, vandalism, numerous acts of destruction, that ended with a mass abduction and what was supposed to be a large-scale human sacrifice. Kara, dear sweet Kara, seasoned investigative reporter, decked in argyle and sensible shoes, was a victim of the mass kidnapping.

And then somehow, she’d freed herself and others, alerting the authorities to their position and helped with the arrest of the leaders of the cult. She’d written a full, five-page coverage of the incident complete with quotes, evidence, photos, and details of her own kidnapping for the magazine. And then she quit.

The _why_ is just one of the things Lena doesn’t yet know about Kara. People at the time made a feast of guessing, though. Modesty, fear—trauma, maybe. But Kara never spoke up, and people eventually forgot all about the unlikely hero who saved hundreds of lives and forewent the praises, choosing to sink into obscurity instead.

One more of the things Lena doesn’t know about Kara, is that she’ll be late to work this morning.

* * *

 

Kara’s head is pounding. A full-on marching band of _good job on your terrible choices!_ that explodes with crass drums to her temples with every step. She is functioning on 3 hours of sleep and is still kind of wine drunk (hungover?) with a chocolate bar hanging out of her mouth. She is running. She is _late._ She is so, _so_ dead.

She is so, so surprised to see the store bustling with activity when she arrives.

Hannah is at checkout with Marcus, her punching in items and him folding them to bag. There is a pile of shopping bags (a pile, _quite_ the pile) and more items are waiting to be checked out at Hannah’s side of the counter. Kara can make out shirts, sweaters, a dress with sequins and a funny-looking strap. Marcus looks just as perplexed by it as Hannah hands it to him.

Kara is very, very confused but she is also very, very late. She squares her shoulders and weaves her way into the store to get to the backroom, which hopefully, is void of one Snapper Carr, to get better dressed and pretend she’s been here for a while.

Only, “Kara!” someone calls out behind her, and her mouth nearly drops the damn chocolate bar as she spins. Her mouth drops the stupid thing anyway when she gawks and she has to catch it, clutching it to her chest protectively.

“Lena!”

Lena’s smile is dazzling. Red lips. Crow’s feet. Deep, purple pencil dress, black coat with the collars flared up. Slicked hair in a bun. Happy green eyes. Kara is pretty proud of herself for not dropping dead.

“You–you’re…”

“Shopping.” Lena shrugs.

Kara looks around them. Marcus is still bagging. Hannah still has some items to check out. Two more shopping bags have been added to Marcus’s side of the counter and Hannah isn’t done yet. “Did you…” Kara clears her throat and leans in close. “Was there a fire? Were you burgled? Did you lose all your stuff? Is everything okay?”

Lena pinks just a little and she clears her throat, making suspicious little side-eyes at Hannah and Marcus. Kara furrows her brows. “ _No_ ,” Lena says slowly. “No, no, nothing of the sort. Okay, I was...” She stops and tips her head furtively to the side. Growing more and more confused by the second, Kara obliges her and they distance themselves from the counter.

“I didn’t know what time you were coming in and I felt stupid just standing around so I… _may_ have started randomly pointing at things.”

“You _what?”_

“Ma’am?” They turn to Hannah—Kara, positively baffled. Lena, impressively straight-faced if only a little pink. “Your total.”

Kara’s eyes fly to the display and she has to blink thrice just to make sure she’s seeing the number right. “Of course,” Lena says coolly, handing over her mode of payment.

A flash of plastic, a beep, a purchase completed, and Kara has yet to close her mouth.

“I see you’re surprised to see me here,” Lena says like that didn’t just happen.

Kara sputters. “See _you_ here—see you _buying_ all this stuff, you mean!”

“I—well—I wanted to talk to you—”

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Danvers,” Snapper rasps as he emerges from the backroom. Kara’s jaws clamp shut. She pulls her spine ramrod straight and whimpers under her breath when Snapper snatches her chocolate bar with a grimace. “Now, if you would like to begin your shift, your majesty.”

“We–well, boss—”

“ _What?_ ”

Lena hesitates next to Kara. “Actually—”

Marcus pipes up behind them obliviously. “Need some help getting these to your car, ma’am?”

“—no, I can just call my driver up—”

“I can help,” Kara blurts.

“—but the reception here is pretty choppy, isn’t it? Ms Danvers?”

“ _Yes_. Yes, I’ll get these for you.” Kara makes a beeline for the bags and scoops up as many as she can into each arm, hefting them up with a whooshing, “shall we?”

Snapper, eyes flicking between Lena and Kara, doesn’t get to have a say in it. Lena pivots, snatches up the remaining two bags, and starts walking. Kara hurries after her and is able to hear “what’s up with Kara’s shirt?” before getting out of earshot.

 

 

It’s a pretty big chocolate stain on her chest that Lena offers tissues from her car to clean up with while she laughs. Kara sets the tissues aside, dutifully arranging the shopping bags in neat rows in the trunk of Lena’s car with the kind of precision Snapper would be proud of. Lena watches her all the while with a smile. Kara is pretending her ears don’t feel warm.  

She clears her throat, “so, what’s this about wanting to talk to me?” and retrieves the tissues before shutting the trunk. “Is there a… problem?”

“Oh, no.” Lena shakes her head. Pauses, amends: “actually, you can call it that.”

Kara raises her brows. Idly, she wipes the chocolate stain at the center of her chest down with tissues. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Well…?”

Lena, for the second time today, hesitates. It’s not everyday Kara sees someone looking ready for a magazine photoshoot come to see her, talk to her, and hesitate. So she enjoys it. Plays it cool. Laughs a little and makes to lean on the trunk of the car to seem _cool_. “Come on, Lena, tell me.”

“I realized I forgot to get your number.”

Kara’s hand slips. She adjusts her glasses appropriately and clears her throat twice. “What was that?”

“Your number.” There’s more confidence in Lena’s voice now. Seeing someone flounder and almost faceplant on the trunk of your car does boost confidence, doesn’t it? “I was an idiot and forgot to ask for it.”

“You bought over 6000 dollars in CDG items to ask for my number?”

“Which _I promise_ isn’t to pressure you. I thought I was starting to look suspicious just standing around the store and panicked.”

Is that the most ridiculous thing Kara’s heard? Why yes. Does it make her laugh and her chest stutter pathetically? But of course. Lena reddens furiously when Kara snorts but manages a quiet laugh herself, passing a hand over her face to hide it. She turns her face downward and her shoulders shudder, and when she looks up again, her smile is that wonderful cross between hopeful and flustered. She bites her lip and it’s incredible.

“Do you even know what you bought?”

Lena shakes her head slowly and Kara laughs. “Not my proudest moment,” Lena admits, eyes averting, going back, and then flicking away again.

“It’s cute,” Kara says reassuringly. Lena wrinkles her nose and they share a chuckle. “Give me your phone.”

Lena has it out in a second. Excitedly, Kara laughs to think. She enters her number, saves the contact ( _Kara_ ) and hands it back with a bitten lip. “Just… call whenever, I guess.”

“Count on it,” Lena says gamely. She twirls the phone in her hand and they just look at one another for a while: dopey smiles, dumb silence, something like a flutter in the recesses of Kara’s insides. Finally, Lena draws in a deep breath. “I should go.”

“Yep. Yeah.” Kara pats her hips. She realizes what she’s still holding, and awkwardly hands back the tissue box. “I’ll see you?”

“Of course. And Kara?”

“Mm?”

Lena’s pulled open the passenger door of her car, poised to enter. She smiles at Kara brightly. “I had a nice time last night.”

The hours she pored into researching _Lena Luthor_ and going to bed at nearly 4 in the morning notwithstanding, “I did too,” Kara replies smilingly.

Back in the store, Snapper demands she _change out of her disgusting shirt_ and the day carries on with hourly checks of her phone, a perpetual, dumb-looking smile, and Snapper sneaking looks at her as if she’s possessed.

* * *

 

Here is what Kara knows of Lena Luthor.

She has a son, is unmarried, and 35 years old. A powerhouse of a woman, she is the owner and CEO of L-Corp and a partner in number of other ventures, mostly businesses having to do with robotics, charity, and medicine. She started college at 15 and by the age of 25, had a Masters and a PhD, with her universities of choice being namely NCU and MIT. She was adopted—the fourth in a family of four warm bodies, now reduced to three, and only one free.

 _Luthors’ Illegal Gambling Ring and Syndicate Connections Uncovered_ was, unsurprisingly, the first result that popped up when Kara looked up her name.

Lex Luthor, her brother, is in prison serving several life sentences for illegal gambling, racketeering, and murder. As the CEO of LuthorCorp at Metropolis ten years ago, Lex squandered a sizeable portion of the Luthor riches into gambling and later escalated into unspeakable businesses with international syndicates. Lena had been dragged into the scandal, and then dragged, beaten, and forgotten in the mud of her brother’s dirt, leaving her to patiently regrow all that he’d lost.

L-Corp is nothing yet like the gargantuan presence that was LuthorCorp, but Lena has made significant progress with rebuilding it to the same prestige as its predecessor. Differently is to be said of the Luthor name, however. Lillian disappeared after the elder Luthor child’s imprisonment, and none of Lena’s philanthropic efforts or bright-eyed photographs has made people forget all that Lex has done. Why her mother left, the articles don’t say. Kara doesn’t know.

Here is something else Kara doesn’t know about Lena Luthor: it has been years since she even thought to date again.

* * *

 

It takes Lena a full four days to find the time to call Kara. Four days of stressing over spreadsheets, chewing out her employees, and late nights with carrot sticks and heading straight to bed when she gets home. On the third night, she even fell asleep in her office and woke up to Andy leaving a pack of creamed kale on her desk (let people say she’s not that great of a mother—no one has the right to even _think_ she doesn’t have a good son, though.) That had, weirdly been, the last straw.

“You need a break, mom,” Andy griped, looking at his mother with the kind of precision no ten year-old should be capable of (and Lena is rather proud of that, actually.)

“What kind of break?”

“I don’t know.” Andy shrugged. “What do CEO moms do for fun?”

CEO moms usually go out with their friends, unwind, and relax, as far as Lena knows. For CEO moms with unpleasant pasts and no real friends to speak of other than their loyal secretaries (God bless Jess) the options are scarce. Jess has her own life, besides.

After Lex, after her mother went away and all her so-called friends abandoned her to the media frenzy that surrounded her name and company, Lena escaped to National City and resigned herself to a life of guardedness. No number of donations or company rebranding could change the public’s perception of her. People smiled at her genuinely until they saw the name on her business card. Flirtation is easy until it slips who she’s related to. Andy has no more than two friends at school. Bullying is discouraged because of his name, see, but so is friendship.

Just the same, we are brought to two hours later, Lena all freshened up and already having completed three business calls, staring at Kara’s contact on her phone.

Kara is… a breath of fresh air, at the risk of sounding cliché. She’d looked at Lena the same, before and after the revelation: a little flustered, a little charmed, a whole lot of smiles and warmth. People who _really_ knew her looked at her with intent—someone to be milked, used, kept in a pocket. Kara shared drinks with her and talked about her manager with the eyes of someone who wanted none of the advantages a Luthor could give. Or maybe she’s just the best actress ever.

All Kara has done is smile at Lena and ask about her son, refill her wine, and laugh scrunched-nose at a corny joke, and she’s inevitably done something no one has been able to in a long time.

She’s made Lena scared.

Lena learned to look at people with clear eyes. She could pin down what they wanted in one meeting or two and would know how to keep them in check. Two encounters and one drink date and all Lena has catalogued of Kara is that her eyes crinkle almost shut when she laughs or smiles too wide, she has laugh lines that cut at Lena’s heart deep, and has anyone ever told her she should wear bow ties more?

It’s the fear of a meticulously built defense system being bypassed, threatened. It’s the fear of not knowing what to expect and do, of opening up: it’s Lena having absolutely no idea if Kara will stay and what she’d do if Kara chooses to go.

She glares at her phone. She’s made it this far though, hasn’t she? She’s taken the woman out for drinks, swaggered into her workplace like it was no one’s business, asked for her number with shaking knees. Confidence is key, see. Do it before you could talk yourself out of it.

It’s an adage Lena, personally, owes a lot of her success to. She picks up her phone.

If Kara changes her mind, if some time in the past four days she decided to look further into Lena and started to think differently of this. If she’d tell Lena no, or use Lena for something else, then so be it. Perhaps that would be better, a large part of her says. A tiny part of her whispers the opposite, and she swallows.

Scared, oh, so scared.

It takes four rings for Kara to pick up. “ _Hello?_ ” Lena’s hand is clamped tight around the edge of her desk. Something in her belly is ricocheting a hundred different directions. “ _Hello? Who is this? Sorry, I’m at work, if this is important just text me—_ ”

“Kara, it’s Lena,” Lena breathes, levelled. A beat of silence. Lena’s body starts to grow cold.

“ _Lena,_ ” Kara says, warm, smile stark in her voice. The next thing she says is a bucket of hot water that sears through all the ice of Lena’s terror and makes her slump and laugh. “ _Hang on—sorry, give me a second. I’m gonna. I’m gonna tell my manager I’m going for a bathroom break, ‘kay?_ ”

* * *

 

Kara is about to tear a hole into her handkerchief.

It is 30 minutes to 9. She still has time to back out of this date if she wants to. She is sitting on the foot of her bed, staring at her degree on the wall, thinking about whether or not she really wants to.

She’d been happy with the quiet and simplicity she simmered her life down to. No stresses and no problems and no people looking at her and only seeing the _hero._ In five years she’s managed to mold herself into a nobody, a plain face, just a woman on a bus with cups of frappe to prepare or clothes to tag and shelf. In five years she’s managed to make people forget what she hasn’t, what she’s still trying to, what she really doesn’t want people to remember again.

 _Hero_. She snorts derisively at it. She walks out of her room to get herself something to drink.

She’d been 32. At the prime of her career, her name on bylines and being relied on for information, facts, truth. She was 32 and walking home when someone hit her on the head, and she came to with her hands tied behind her back and a rag that tasted like feet and dust between her teeth.

She saved everyone, of course. That’s always how that story ends. She got out. Disarmed a guard. Called the police. That’s all the story says.

Her hands have started to shake. She drops the glass, and the sound of it falling, hitting the floor, shattering, makes something in her crumple and turns her breathing to thin, thin wheezing. Teeth digging into her lip, she braces herself for the panic attack. It does not come with mercy. It never does.

It’s 20 minutes to 9 when she can let go of the kitchen counter without wanting to retch. There’s still time. She could stop this now, while it’s early—while it’s not _there_ yet. For five years, Kara’s ducked her way out of prying eyes that dare to wonder _do I know you from somewhere?_ and ventured into friendships with light feet and knees bent, ready to take off running. Five years she’d taken two steps back whenever someone thought to take one step closer.

She’s perfected the art of silence, clamming up, and this right now is reckless, wretched, and threatens everything she’s worked so hard for. Lena had barged into the store and into her life in Louboutins and with a damning laugh that itches to peel away the tape of Kara’s silence. She’d gotten them wine and asked Kara questions, curiously though gently: it’s fine, it’s cool, no pressure. Patient and sweet and Kara dares to think, _uncaring_ of the thing that Kara still sees in her sleep and the hundreds of lives she saved in one night.

Lena looks at her with wonder and permission, and Kara’s heart is so full of _yes_ she has to take a moment each time to crawl back into her skin and compose herself.

It’s dumb. And dangerous. And scary. To open herself up to the world again—oh, all three, absolutely.

17 minutes to 9. If she takes a taxi, she’ll get to the restaurant on time. She visualizes Lena sitting across from her and asking about her day at work, and she is close, again, to ripping a hole through her handkerchief, a smile quirking her lips. She walks out of her apartment, into the streets, out in the world.

She’s always run headfirst into danger anyway, hasn’t she?

* * *

 

They walk into the restaurant together. Now, I’ll let you visualize this. Two women on two very different sides of the demographics, distanced by age, culture, intelligence. The gap is expansive, but they walk close to each other, hands threatening to touch and strides deliberately measured. One is wearing Alex Perry, the other a dress she’s surprised still fits. One has business emails and paperwork to look forward to when she gets home, and the other only has a half-finished muffin and blessed sleep. They smile at each other. And here, you may start to think this is another romance of the rich and the not-so-rich, the royalty and the rabble. Please—it is so much more.

You should know by now, things are not that simple.

* * *

 

“So,” Kara drawls. Lena regards her with quirked brows over the rim of her wineglass. “It took you four days to call me.”

Lena sputters. Gracefully, though, gracefully, don’t get her wrong. She only spits into her wine once and coughs twice, much to the gleeful crinkle of Kara’s nose. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Kara says, sounding very not sorry. She hands Lena a napkin. “Should I have beaten around the bush a little?”

“Oh _god_ no, I like people straightforward. It simplifies things.”

“Well then I was starting to think you were one of those _types._ The whole _make them sweat_ types.”

“Did _you_ sweat?”

“I’m asking the questions here.” Kara tuts and leans forward, resting her hand on her chin. The movement makes light catch on her hair, flatter the soft curve of her jaw and her eyes—oh, always her eyes. She smiles too, as if those weren’t enough. “Why’d it take you four days to call me?”

Lena swirls her wine and quirks a challenging brow. “I’m a busy woman, Ms Danvers,” she says slowly, inflecting humor. Kara chuckles at that. “As you may already know, I run a company. And not a small one.”

“I should be flattered you made the time for me then.”

“You should be.”

“And _you_ should be flattered I shaved my legs for this.” Lena’s bark of laughter is disgraceful but oh, so good. She covers her mouth. Kara is grinning. “I’d tell you to go ahead and feel but we probably aren’t at that stage yet.”

There is laughter but what was said doesn’t go over Lena’s head. Kara seems to realize later on, too, and she rolls her lips into her mouth and ducks her head, fumbling with her glasses then her hair. It’s pinned up, her hair. Her neck is long, and the curves of its muscles flow seamlessly into broad shoulders and thick arms. Was it mentioned in any article that Kara was an athlete? Worked out? Well, it _should’ve been._ Those arms deserve recognition.

“ _Stages_ ,” Lena revisits, drawing her wineglass further away from her mouth. Kara’s eyes flick up to her. “Am I to believe then that we are working towards… something here?”

“Aren’t we?”

“ _Are_ we?” Kara smiles shyly. Lena leans in. “If… you’re looking for something, Kara…”

“I’m not insinuating, um.” Kara leaves her glasses alone and reaches for her wineglass. “I mean, you’re busy, and you have Andy, and wow—I’m _me—_ ”

“Now hold on a second—”

“I didn’t mean that self-deprecatingly, it’s…”

Kara seems to be catching words that won’t stick. Lena clears her throat. “If it’s because I’m a Luthor, I completely understand—”

“Oh, no. Lena, no. I don’t care about that at all.” And the careless way Kara says it too. Lena’s mouth clamps shut. “It’s more… I don’t really know yet? Is that… that’s not very nice to hear at all, is it?”

“It’s honest, Kara. Honesty is always nice to hear. Especially when you’re me,” Lena says softly. She means it, too. Kara softens and her shoulders relax, and that’s all it takes to have them smiling again.

“Although… I _would_ like to keep seeing you. Until I can figure it out.”

“Until _we_ can figure it out, you mean. I’m not the most available myself.”

“Does Andy know where you are?” Kara asks cheekily. Lena snorts. “Oh, he doesn’t, does he?”

“Only because I came straight here from my office. I had my PA run home and get me a dress and my secretary give me a pep talk.”

“Secretary—that’s Jess, isn’t it?” Lena hums. “And what kind of pep talk did she give you?”

“The one that goes just because I’m a mother doesn’t mean I don’t have a slamming ass and that I definitely deserve to have a good time.”

Kara laughs. Lena grins at her and nods, _that’s Jess_ , and their waiter for the night is pretty sure they barely notice him even as he goes around the table setting up their meal and refilling their drinks. The blonde one is saying something about dresses and how good the other woman’s fits, and the black-haired one is trying not to look too pleased and failing. He wonders, as do we all, when they’ll think to kiss. And also, has he seen them both somewhere before?

Some time into their meal, Kara says, “it _is_ a slamming ass, though,” and wine shoots out of Lena’s nostrils back into her glass.

 

 

We go back now to the waiter’s question that ought to be addressed—the first one, that is. Isn’t that what interests us the most? Gus knows where to go without having to ask for Kara’s address. They sit in the same distance as the first time they did, in this same car, with the same absurd air of shyness crowning the two of them.

Kara’s hand is rested between them, pinky flush against the side of Lena’s thigh. It’s wretched, that hand. Lena wants to hold it. Stages, though. Stages.

“I had a nice time,” Kara tells her when Gus pulls over. The partition is drawn. Lena knows it isn’t soundproof, but she also knows Gus is a professional and probably won’t listen in. Or at least he won’t gossip, if he does. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Lena says, “for seeing me.”

“Let me return the favor? Some other night? When you’re free. It won’t be… fancy, though, just a word of warning.”

“Kara, you could take me to a junkyard and I’d be happy just to be there with you.” Kara laughs. “Please don’t, though.”

“No, no. Just this nice restaurant I really like.”

“Well, you have my number.”

Kara nods. “Yeah.” She fidgets next, wrestles with some private thought, and then opens her door. She doesn’t climb out yet, though.

We know a thing or two about chances by now, don’t we? Lena steels herself: dares herself to be a little bit braver. Her pulse is aflutter. “May I?” she asks meekly, and Kara turns to her, confused. She reaches out and thumbs Kara’s chin. Kara understands. Her face reddens.

But she nods. She nods, turning her cheek for Lena to kiss. Lena inches close and presses her lips gingerly to Kara’s cheek: it’s soft. Pillowy, almost, against Lena’s lips. Warm too. A little more to the side and it would’ve been Kara’s lips. Stages, stages. When they draw apart, Kara immediately fusses over her glass and climbs out.

“I’ll call you,” she tells Lena, hovering at the sidewalk, holding the door open. Lena smiles at her.

“Can’t wait.”

 

Lena stands at her balcony with the wind in her hair, wine in her hands, and blessed, blessed sleep still so far away. It’s past midnight. It was a night like this when she got the call from her mother saying Lex had been taken in by the FBI. A quiet night like this was when things blew up in her face and ten years later, she is still reeling from the blast. 

It was also a night like this for Kara, little does Lena know, when her own life was turned upside down. It was a peaceful night, unsuspecting,  _traitorous._ Kara has her muffin and she is sat at her couch, looking out the window, doing breathing exercises and calculating how many more days her bottle of sleeping pills will last her. 

They leave, eventually, for bed. And only you and I are allowed to know these: Kara types, deletes, _retypes_ , _deletes_ a text to Lena five times before surrendering and hiding under her sheets. Lena almost calls, four times. When they fall asleep, their last thoughts are of each other. 


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are taking super long and i'm sorry and they're prob gonna take even longer now bec i just!! got a job yall!! on the up side ~*employment*~ and on the down less time to write, but believe me i don't forget things :') i like to think i see stuff through to the end
> 
> thank u to my beta, my boo who uses so many names idk which one to mention. anyway thank you Win <3
> 
> by the way have yall seen [Keiynan Lonsdale's new video](https://youtu.be/Eu90RXox81s) bec it's got me shook. 20gayteen in full swing

Here is something I must tell all of you, before we continue.

Not everything we see is the whole truth. Truth, yes, of course, like perhaps the birth of a child to parents, the crack of thunder in the sky, the russet of the sky at sunset. We know at once that this baby pulled out of his mother and with thin hair the color of his father’s is really theirs. We know thunderclap signals rain. We know the sky should be russet at sunset.

The whole truth, though, goes something like this: those two people may be the child’s parents now, but in three days they will be giving him away. That blast of thunder means rain but not right now, maybe not even right here. The fiery bronze of the sky isn’t just because of the sunset, but because of the lights of a lively city roads and roads over, stars and heavenly bodies swallowed by light pollution and human life.

I am not telling you to doubt everything you see, of course. For why would you doubt the beauty of life, the fear of destruction, the double edge of progress and innovation. No, I am only here to tell you: look closer. There could be more. More often than not, there _is_ more. And we do not breathe simply to take things at face value. We have eyes, and we have hands, and we have souls, and we use all we have to dig deeper and see.

And I am here to warn you that while truth often is beauty, the whole of it may not always be. Life is founded on opposites and pairs, after all—light and dark, good and bad, the beautiful and the not.

Enough then of me, yes? Now we must brace ourselves. Because as these two women have discussed before, there are stages, stages. I am now here to bring you to the next.

Allow me to take you to the middle.

* * *

 

“ _Well good morning, Ms Danvers_.”

“Morning, Ms Luthor.”

“ _Lovely day, isn’t it?_ ”

“Lovely enough for a lunch date?”

“ _Well… that is yet to be determined… At the risk of cancelling because I think Jess has a grossly hectic agenda lined up for me today, may I say maybe?_ ”

“I can take a maybe. I can even take a no if you’d say it sweetly.”

“ _When am I ever not sweet?_ ”

“When you leave me hanging on a maybe, for one…”

_“Touché.”_

 

 

“ _On the lunch date…_ ”

“Am I getting a no?”

A noisy intake of air through teeth. “ _Investors are coming in from Metropolis and my heel just broke, I think._ ”

“And it’s only 10:30. Hey, don’t worry about it. All the next times in the world.”

“ _How are you on the phone with me right now?_ ”

“Hint: Snapper is telling me to take it easy on the liquids because I keep leaving for bathroom breaks.”

“ _Well, we can’t have you dehydrated, can we?_ ”

 

 

“ _So…_ ”

“Investors?”

“ _Close. The actual owners. And they want me to fly to Star City._ ”

“Just promise me you’re bringing an extra set of heels.”

“ _Already in my carryon with half a kilogram of Lucas Pinchao_.”

“Give ‘em hell and come back with good news, Ms Luthor.”

“ _As you wish, Ms Danvers_.”

 

 

“Lena, I’m sorry, my sister needs me to run some errands today.”

“ _Of course, of course. Don’t worry about it_.”

“I really am sorry, gosh, and now that you’re schedule’s clear.”

“ _I’m sure I have a number of cancellations of my own on credit, Kara. Take care with those errands._ ”

“Yes, ma’am. Take care with your Ojai trip tonight.”

“ _Oh I hate flying_.”

 

 

“ _Well…_ ”

“Mhm, well…?”

“ _How did the day go for you?_ ”

“Oh the usual. Clothes folding, assisting snobby customers, weathering Snapper’s moods…”

“ _Ah, snobby customers_.”

“Can you believe the upper class?” A shared laugh. “And your day?”

“ _Well, Yard House double-booked its private dining room and that was stressful. Luckily I am smooth and the other party opted for a reschedule_.”

“You said smooth just now and I flashed back to your 6000-dollar purchase at CDG.”

“ _Will you ever let me live that down?_ ”

“Uh-uh. Not likely, Lena. Not likely.”

 

 

_Can I call?_

_Sorry, not right now._

_Oh, of course._

_Hang on._ A pause. Dots. _[Image attached.]_

_Oh my goodness THE PUPPIES._

_With my sister and her family picking a puppy to adopt. What I wouldn’t give to hear that reaction out loud._

_That will ruin the professional CEO sheen, I think._

_On the contrary, I think that’ll improve it._

 

 

“ _So…”_

“Is that _so_ a starter for what I think it’s a starter for?”

“ _Well, will my saying Jess tells me I’m due for an early clock out today answer your question?_ ”

“With all the confetti bombs and trumpets.”

A sound laugh. “ _Say a time_.”

“Eight. I’ll text you the address.”

“ _And the dress code?_ ”

“Preferably something that won’t scream _I’m Ms Luthor of L-Corp_ , if you can manage the challenge.”

“ _Now that’s going to be a problem, the whole purpose of my wardrobe is to shout_ I’m Ms Luthor of L-Corp _and_   _ease_ _all potential business acquaintances into submission._ ”

“Well, I’m sure finding an outfit that’s appropriately low-key but still looks good is just one of the things in the long list of things Ms Luthor of L-Corp can do.”

“ _You’re appealing to both my sense of professional pride and vanity. You play this game well_.”

“Folding shirts is just one of the things I’m good at, you know.”

“ _Mhm. Now, let me see if I can do low-key for you_.”

“Perfect.”

“ _See you tonight._ ”

A pause. A smile hidden behind a hand. “See you.”

* * *

 

“Mom, what are you doing?”

Lena is standing on the tips of her toes, phone held over the selection of three dresses she’s splayed out on her bed. Fifteen other dresses are at her feet and she is still in her bathrobe 30 minutes after stepping out of the bathroom. Her closet behind her looks vaguely like the aftermath of a hurricane. There is a thong stuck on the towel on her head, and there is a tangle of push-up bras bunched into her underarm.

What _is_ she doing. Good question.

The middle, you see, segues to four days later with a dinner promised, an hour left on the clock, and the search for an outfit that would fit a quaint, small-scale family restaurant on the other side of the city. Kara meant it as a joke, she’s sure, but count on Lena Luthor to want to deliver because she is nothing if not a woman who is dependable.

She may also be peacocking and may want to prove she can rock casual clothing as well as she does formal. But that part is a secret.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says without looking away. Buddha will envy the patience with which she tries to fit all three dresses in the shot. Her thumb hovers above the shutter. “I’m taking a picture of these dresses to send to your aunt Jess so she can help me pick.”

She nearly has the perfect shot. Andy’s face pops up at the corner. “ _Andy_ ,” she says slowly.

“I didn’t know you had a business meet.”

Lena sags and she lowers herself with a slump. “They look like they’re for business meets?”

Andy looks at the dresses, and then at his mother. “Don’t they? I’m confused.”

“No, Andy, I’m… _going out_ , and I need something that is the exact opposite of what I apparently have here.”

“All your dresses look like they’re for business meets,” Andy murmurs helpfully, _thank you_. Lena grumbles a wordless epithet and marches back to her closet. She is hampered for a split second by another bra on the floor but no one saw that. Andy saw that. “But hey, isn’t that like. You’re whole image? CEO, no-nonsense and everything? Changing it up a little bit?”

“I want to try keeping it low-key for tonight.”

“Oh. Well _these_ won’t do, mom.”

“Thank you for the input, sweetheart.”

“Didn’t you buy a bunch of stuff last week?”

Lena in fact, did. Cue hand on face. She sticks her head out of the closet and searches the room for Andy, who has already taken the liberty of going through the mound of CDG shopping bags she has dumped on the corner by the door. Did she even grab anything even remotely casual but still classy? Where was her brain during that moment?

Ah, that’s right. On the proper wording of _can I get your number_ without sounding like an entitled snob, or a flustered loon.

Now then.

“Found anything?”

“I got a dress. It’s weird,” Andy calls back. Lena approaches him from behind and watches the bob of his head as he goes through shopping bag after shopping bag.

“You really need a haircut.”

“You really need clothes,” her son fires back. He reaches into one shopping bag, pulls out a soft-looking black sweater and goes, “oh.”

Lena, also, goes “oh.”

Andy twists to look up at his mother. “You at least have jeans, right?”

Lena looks severely affronted for all of three seconds before her expression turns somber and she whispers, “wait, do I?”

* * *

 

Kara is puzzled about three specific things at this moment.

First is how Lena still manages to look like a complete bombshell in sleek, black jeans, pumps, and a sweater she pushes the sleeves up to the elbows. The all-black ensemble is doing this weird, classy, undercover thing for Kara. Though she supposes she isn’t far off because she did say Lena should keep it low-key.

Second is what in the world is so different between a plain Noonan’s cup and a promotional Game of Thrones cup that the girls in front of them find so jarring. They are holding up the line, have been there for at least fifteen minutes arguing amongst each other which to get, and this really was not the impression Kara wanted to give Lena about the, quote, _best restaurant in the whole wide world_ , end quote.

Third is wait, Game of Thrones is still going?

Lena, for her part, looks impressively unperturbed. She observes the restaurant with idle eyes and arms crossed. Kara catches her eye and gives a sheepish smile. Lena only winks, smiling sweetly, giving the teenage girls before them a meaningful side eye.

The girls go with the Game of Thrones cups. Stop the presses. Kara releases a whooshing sigh. Lena looks up to the heavens in gratitude.

 

 

They are on the table directly next to Kara and Lena and they talk in high, excited voices. Kara is chewing her food very slowly and Lena is taking prim sips of her iced tea. Earlier, Kara tried again and again to start a conversation but her voice was quickly swallowed up by the loud laughing from the girls’ table. She’d given up after four whole attempts.

This. Is a disaster. Scenarios of booking it after they’ve finished their meal and never calling Lena again flash in Kara’s field of vision like fog lights. It seems like a plausible plan to her. Hide away her shame, be single forever, die surrounded by her friends who have found their own love interests. Poetic, if she may say so herself. Just let her finish her sticky bun dessert.

The girls leave before she could put the last chunk in her mouth though, and as soon as the bell above the door rings to signal the exit and the tinny voices fade away—Lena starts _laughing_. Kara covers her face with her hands.

“I am so, so sorry—”

“God, Kara, don’t be!”

“I promise it isn’t usually like this, this is a nice, _peaceful_ , family place—”

“Kara, oh, _Kara_ ,” Lena takes a deep breath and wheezes a laugh one more time, “I’m not mad or anything, come on now.”

Kara pries her fore and middle fingers apart to look at Lena. Her glasses are smudged with palm prints. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s nothing, really. They had some interesting theories on when Winter will be arriving. Besides, next time may be better.”

“Next time I’ll do some recon to make sure the place is clear of teenage girl hordes,” Kara promises.

“Mm. And let me pay next time.”

“Lena, I haven’t forgotten you paid 6000 dollars to come see me for my number. You’ve maxed out your privilege to pay for things.”

“On the contrary,” Lena raises a finger, “I think that gives me all the right to be paying for things.”

“For a second there, I almost forgot you were Lena Luthor with this getup.”

“Precisely why my wardrobe is the way it is. Full disclosure,” Lena says. She’s tracing the inside of her lower lip with the straw of her iced tea and Kara is desperately trying not to look. She is failing, just so we all know. “It took a while to put together this outfit.”

“This… sweater and jeans outfit?”

“Some time in the last few years I guess I stopped buying clothes for nonbusiness and nonformal events,” Lena waves her hand, “and the vision and mission statement of my wardrobe turned out to be truer than I thought.”

Somewhere in there is a terribly sad confession. Kara hears it as creatures tuned to specific frequencies do: sadness to sadness, aloneness to aloneness. She smiles and hopes it’s at least halfway gleeful as she means. “Where’d you dig this up then?”

Lena tilts her head and grins. “Well, as it turned out, I did go on an impromptu shopping spree last week,” she says with pumping brows. Kara shakes her head fondly. “But the jeans are mine. Had to dig for treasure to find them.”

“They’re good treasure.”

“The best, one could say.”

“Slamming ass,” Kara revisits with a nodding head, and Lena grins, raising her glass.

 

 

“So you’ve never been to this side of the city?”

“I wouldn’t say never,” Lena replies with a shrug, walking slowly, leisurely, swishing hips and wandering eyes. They’d agreed to a walk to let Lena see this part of the city a little more. Up close and slow. “But I don’t think I’ve ever had a reason to constantly come here.”

“Reason as in…”

“Business dealings. Meetings. Emergencies, God forbid.”

Kara grins cheekily and slants at an angle to let Lena see it. “I didn’t know we had a business dealing.”

“We don’t,” Lena says, matching Kara’s humor, “but I do have a reason.”

“You do?”

“I like seeing you. I may start frequenting this part of the city more often now.”

Kara pulls back. She toys with her glasses and looks at her shoes, playing off the warmth on her face. Lena is rather good at this, isn’t she? She says as much: “well aren’t you a flatterer.”

“I’m detecting tones of suspicion. À la _I’m a ladykiller_ suspicions?”

“Oh, _aren’t_ you?”

“Christ, no,” Lena snorts. “I wish.”

“I somehow find that hard to believe.”

“Just because it’s working on you doesn’t mean it’s worked on other people before.”

“So you do admit to making the moves on me!”

“Only because it’s working,” Lena says breezily. Kara sidles closer, laughing as Lena laughs, walking as Lena walks. They’re close—too close, one could say, but isn’t this the middle and this is the part where they grow close? In both their phones their texts to each other are plentiful and call histories are a matter of the simplest  _where’s Waldo?_ In Lena’s, once every few professional contact is _Kara_ , usually 30 minutes long to an hour. In Kara’s, not as frequently popping up as Alex’s or Winn’s, but common enough that the _Lena’s_ are noticeable.

These same phones are on silent owing to each other’s presence. Between them is a teasing few inches of December breeze and neither of them move away. Neither of them mind the proximity.

It is dark, besides. Night, far past 10, dark enough that they feel sequestered from reality. In the morning Kara has a shift, in the afternoon Lena has a PTA meeting to attend. These will be dealt with when they come later because for now, they are here.

At one point, Lena says _you look lovely, by the way_ , and while I can describe it to you in keen detail, the speed of Kara’s blood in her veins, the tingle on her fingers, the spark on her nerves, I will just leave you with the image of her shy grin and dismissive laugh.

This is what will be described in keen detail: it is not as dark as they imagine. Lena’s face is sufficiently lit and Kara’s glasses glimmer with reflected luminescence. There are streetlights on the sidewalk and while there are not many, there are still people. In National City, not too often do passersby mind other passersby. They pass four, five people who do not even glance at them and they pass a sixth who does a double take, though ultimately passes the familiarity off as a trick of the light.

The seventh is more determined. “Excuse me,” the elderly man says, waving his hand in front of them for good measure. In front of _Kara_ , for good measure. Kara stops. She knows that starstruck look of recognition by now. The fight or flight burst is immediate and she’s stiffening without realizing.

“I think I know you from somewhere. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Kara bumps her glasses up, using the motion to conceal her face. She ducks her head. Laughs, practiced. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” the man insists. He steps forward. He is wearing loafers. Kara knows this for certain because she’s bowed her head and is looking down. Fight or flight, now. Fight or flight. Her knee is bending. Her blood is lightning quick in her veins. Her fingers are clung tight to the fabric of her coat. Her nerves are firing signals of danger danger _danger_.

“I just… you look like—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Lena interjects. Suddenly, but somehow still smoothly. Well-versed in the nuances of polite assertiveness, she is. “I’m sorry but we don’t know you.”

Kara watches the loafers. One second. Two. Three—they move away by tentative inches. “Oh, I apologize. I didn’t mean to be so rude…”

“It’s quite fine.”

“Right, right. Ah, enjoy your evening. I’m sorry, miss.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kara says in a small voice, looking up to smile as the man goes. He shuffles past them and Kara feels herself breathing again. She can feel Lena watching her.

Softly, “Kara?”

“Thanks. Thank you. Uh.” Kara clears her throat. Their eyes meet, and Kara is the first to look away. “Sorry. I just. Don’t like…”

“Of course, of course.”

“I didn’t mean to… _wow_ , make the night such a downer.”

“Nonsense, you didn’t do anything. Shall we…”

“Go home…?”

Lena smiles gently and she feels like the sun on the days Kara can’t get out of bed, all soft reminders that today may not be completely terrible— _tonight_ may not end up completely terrible. Slowly, Lena offers her hand to her.

* * *

 

Kara takes her hand, looking like she’s watching something utterly curious as their fingers twine and their palms pull flush. It inevitably brings them closer and Kara says, in a voice that sounds strangely distant, “I don’t think I want to go home yet.”

Lena hums. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. The last time I picked the place it didn’t go too well.”

“Those girls were plenty entertaining,” Lena says with feigned earnestness and she gets her desired response: Kara smiles, though timidly. A little more seriously and with her free hand primed to reach for her phone, Lena asks, “what do you want then?”

“Air. Lots and lots of air.”

Lena takes out her phone and summons a car.

 

 

She knows exactly the place for lots and lots of air. She knows plenty of things actually—she’s good at it, knowing things.

And yet, here she is, not knowing and only wondering about the blonde woman currently standing at the balcony of her office. Kara’s head is down, her back against the railing, hunched and frayed-looking and showing every bit of her age. Lena herself knows the feeling of having to pull oneself together for the sunlight, for the people, for the mirror. She lets Kara have her moment alone and busies herself with preparing drinks.

Not to say she drinks on the job of course. She doesn’t—the alcohol is part of the office charm and exudes class and elitism that is part 1 in the book of _making business acquaintances._ People are somehow more pliant with alcohol in the vicinity, and if they’re the rare kind who are unimpressed by such vices, the cupboard has a decorated cover that easily doubles as an _objet d’art_.

She has enough to throw together two Americanos, garnish withheld. She serves them up in a tray and gingerly steps into the balcony, careful not to shatter Kara’s quiet, thoughtful bubble as she does. Her attempt is successful for the most part: Kara doesn’t notice her presence until she’s close enough, and once she does, her smile is only thankful.

“Thank you.” Lena nods and waves her hand, no problem. “And sorry about that.”

“Hey, look, nothing to apologize for,” Lena says. Kara blinks at her before nodding, and they weave the quiet as they look out at the city and sip their drinks.

Companionable quiet, surely, but neither can deny the near-concrete tension that ghosts over their shoulders, the both of them stretched taut under the urge to say something about it. But Lena is well-mannered—respectful, patient, and, she likes to think, not intrusive. Kara herself has made it clear she doesn’t like the unsolicited attention.

So they meet in the middle. Here:

“You can ask.”

“Can I ask?”

Said at the same time. They look at each other with humored smiles and chuckle, silently, as they look away.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“So, I take it,” Lena starts slowly, “that is never a good topic to broach, ever?”

“Not… exactly. We don’t have to avoid it or pretend it didn’t happen,” Kara murmurs. “It’s just. These other people. Lena, my fame,” she snorts derisively, “or _notoriety_ or whatever goes beyond the heroism. It has more to do with the aftermath.”

“Your disappearing?”

“My running,” Kara corrects mildly. She takes a too-deep drink of her Americano and sighs with a sound and a look that is so much her age. Lena wants to hold her hand again. “Let’s call it what it really was. I’m surprised you haven’t alluded to it or anything yet, actually.”

“Well… I like to think I’m respectful. And I _have_ googled you, you see.”

“Mm, know all that you need to know already, do you?”

“I wouldn’t say all, there are things about you I’d like to know that weren’t on the internet.”

“Mhm. Like what?”

“A favorite color, for one.”

A laugh, surprised and delighted. Lena wouldn’t call herself so much a prideful person, no, but right now. Oh, her chest swells with that reaction. She grins. “So? What is it?”

“I kind of like blue,” Kara says smilingly, swiping at mouth after another pull of Americano. Lena’s eyes follow the moistness that Kara’s thumb wipes from her bottom lip. She averts her eyes. Flicks it back when Kara says, “I just wish it never happened. Or… people would at least forget about it.”

“Mm. Only wishes don’t often come true, and the cult terrorism got so big that it got international coverage.”

“There are those. Kind of a bummer for me.”

“So… is that why you dis— _ran?_ ” Lena quickly shakes her head. “I mean, of course it was. And we don’t have to talk about it if—”

“It is,” Kara murmurs. Lena rights herself and swallows her word vomit. “They call me a hero but— _here_. I was taken. Do you know what that felt like? I’d rather _not_ be that hero. I hardly am one, anyway.”

“Your actions from back then beg to differ, though.”

Kara closes her eyes and Lena is ready to punch herself for the (insensitive?) comment, but Kara picks up. Her eyes open with her mouth. “Not really. Heroes don’t… run, you know. Heroes don’t…”

A hanging word trail, contemplative silence. Kara nurses her Americano in modest sips and all the while, Lena busies herself with noticing the tightness of her jaw, the tension of her neck, the strained set of her shoulders. Under the bright exterior is something brittle, Lena can see. Tempered by the journalism trade and what came after, like how rocks get jagged and frail and weathered. Lena wants to reach across and feel the wear. “I’m not one to say what heroes are and aren’t, but I can say you saved people and that should mean something.”

“Everything comes at a cost, though.”

“Sanity, for some?”

Kara smiles, and like all she is in this moment, it is frail. “Sanity for some.” She sighs. A big, whooshing exhale. “Now that’s a turn off if there ever was one.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re as gorgeous as the day you so gallantly helped me with the shirt.”

“You do know I was doing my job?”

“And what a job it is,” Lena swoons theatrically. In the crinkle of Kara’s nose Lena finds her satisfaction, though once they’ve sobered from the teasing, Kara puts her head down and touches her glasses.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean. Thank you. For… staying.”

Lena mulls that over. Is there even a reason not to stay? “Don’t worry about it. And you’ve done the same with me. Haven’t let yourself get scared off.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to get scared off by. And I’ve _also_ googled you anyway, so.”

Well of course. A semblance of wariness crawls its way up Lena’s bones but she smothers it with a clipped smile. “Found anything you like?”

“I’ve yet to find anything I don’t like.”

“Now who’s the ladykiller,” Lena murmurs into her drink and Kara laughs, and snorts, and apologizes wordlessly with a grin and a demure shake of her hand. She is lovely like this: laugh lines and eyes almost shut and the ponytail of her hair whipping with the breeze. How long has it been since the last time Lena let someone into her life without professional intent? So long ago, she supposes, since she has to ask herself.

“Careful what you say, though,” she warns, part good-naturedly, part seriously: a small, small part that makes her swallow and wet her lips before continuing. “You might just find something eventually and it won’t be pretty for us both.”

Kara sobers. Slowly, the way snow settles on the sidewalk and watercolors bleed into each other. She looks at Lena with such purity, clarity, that Lena cannot look directly at her no matter how hard she tries. “Well, who can say,” Kara says. Honesty, again, honesty. Lena treasures it as much as she loathes it in this instance. “For now I haven’t. So I’m sticking with that.”

Lena is speechless after that. Kara, Kara—so… refreshingly careless with her regard of Lena’s name, her past, her everything. Lena’s mouth works.

“And you’d think my having a son would be enough to turn anyone off.”

When at a loss, try for humor. Hasn’t failed Lena yet and it seems the streak will continue: Kara chuckles. “Well… he’s an adorable son.”

“He hates that adjective as a descriptor for him.”

“Good thing he isn’t here to hear it. Does he know where you are?”

“He knows I’m going out as in going out, yes. You ask about him a lot, don’t you?”

“Well he is your son,” Kara says with a timid smile. Lena can guess the question that’s about to come and she is surprised by the complete tranquility she feels, even in the face of Kara’s subtle fumbling. No doubt rolling the query around in her mouth. It’s charming. “About him…”

“His father?”

Kara bows her head a little. “If that’s an alright question to ask.”

“It is.” When it’s Kara. When it’s here, in the peace of the moon and a high, windy balcony. Lena tilts her glass. She watches ice cubes bounce around in the amber liquid. “Jack Spheer.”

“Spheerical Industries.”

“Now a subsidiary of L-Corp. He died ten years ago. But that’s something you probably already know.”

“I’ve seen articles. Lab explosion?”

“Perished while doing the thing he loves. Tinkering. Trying to make the world a better place.” Lena laughs and it’s fond. There is still heartache with Jack, though only a little now. Dimmed by the years and the stresses of motherhood. She smiles at Kara. “He was a good person.”

Kara nods. “I don’t doubt it. I guess Andy doesn’t ask questions then?”

“Oh, he does. Little bits here and there. What Jack was like, his work, how we met. Never the same question twice.” Lena chuckles and Kara smiles with her. “Which, you know, honestly always puts me in a bit of a spot whenever he thinks to ask questions.”

“He sounds smart.”

“He is. And… too mature, you could say. I worry about that sometimes. I feel like this life he’s been born into didn’t come with a proper childhood.”

A particularly harsh zephyr makes Lena’s shoulders bunch up and Kara makes a distressed sound, coming close. Her arm winds around Lena’s waist and the other motions to the office. “What do you mean?”

“A name carries more burden than you could imagine.” It’s Kara who slides open the door, and it’s Lena who steps in first. The interior of her office is warm but that doesn’t mean Kara’s own body heat isn’t missed—Lena steps back from the thought before she could dip more than just her toes into it. “He can’t make many friends. And his free time often just goes to studying or… whatever it is he does on his computer.”

“Kids these days spend a lot of time on their computers, to be fair.”

“Yes, but he’s taught himself Python, Kara. He’s only ten.”

“Oh.”

“Which brings me to the matter of am I being a good mother? Probably not.” Lena sits herself down on a couch. Here, on this space, many times she’s entertained high-powered businessmen. Never, she thinks, just… a guest. Just a Kara. “I knew I’d never be from the moment I held him in my arms. To not say anything of my family’s history with child-rearing yet.”

Kara sits next to Lena with one leg curled under her and Lena marvels at how she just fits there. Like a glove, like a long-lost piece of Lena’s life sliding into place. Toes, though, just toes. Lena steps away from the thought again. Their glasses are set aside. Kara regards her, pensive.

“You’re being unfair to yourself, don’t you think? You attribute so much about yourself to your name when you’re really more than that.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“I’m not saying it to be kind, though,” Kara says quietly. “I’m saying what I see.”

“People saw Lex a good man incapable of the things he did, too.”

Lena’s lip wobbles. Between them, quiet breathing. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Kara’s hand slowly, carefully reaching. She thinks about dipping her whole body in and sinking.

* * *

 

And she takes Kara’s hand. Kara inhales and runs her thumb in circles on the top of Lena’s hand, pressing and pressing down, patterns and circles until the stiffness bleeds out of it. “Your brother is different from you. You have your own choices to make.”

Lena is quiet. Looking up, Kara finds her staring at their joined hands and she wonders what Lena sees. Possibilities? Impossibilities? Comfort, fear?

She gets her answer. “I’ve never told anybody any of that before.”

“How does it feel to?”

Lena looks up. “Terrifying,” and it’s said with a laugh along with the shaky voice of truth. Kara nods, humming. She knows it. The fear of bareness, stripped silence, laying open. Lena’s free hand comes up to cup her mouth like she might vomit but all that comes is tears.

They don’t fall but they pool there, around her eyes, and Kara takes Lena’s face in the chalice of her hands to hold—she wants to know Lena’s trepidations like they’re fractures of her bones. She asks a question and when Lena replies, she asks one more. _Are you okay? Yes._

“Can I kiss you?”

Yes. It is soft and welcoming, the chaste taste of one’s lips meeting another’s for the first time. The next one isn’t much so: Kara pulls away and Lena cranes to pursue, crushing their mouths together in a connection that’s wetter and warmer and full. Lena tastes like the fresh vestiges of a cocktail and the artificial tang of lipstick. She kisses like a ten year-closed soul unraveling. Kara bleeds out her own five years’ worth, tongue full of yes, aching to be freed.

A shoulder tugged. Kara comes up for air and Lena noses at the corner of her mouth, breathing slow breaths. Two questions again. _Was that okay? Yes._

“Does this mean I can keep taking you out to dinner, sanity intact or not?”

Kara swipes her thumbs across the exquisite juts of Lena’s cheekbones. Lena smiles and says, “yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> [also on tumblr. :')](https://m-arahuyo.tumblr.com/tagged/matib-fic)


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